



* </ /iter- ^ *♦ " 











*»^ 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/poemsOOayer 




Iff! 

w 

6/; 









re 

3ft 



tiz&z&&it&ztiziii&zttzzii&znztizzizzizzzz&zv 



POEMS 



By 



/ ^ERICA'S SOLDIER POET 




^P 



ivate Lenard Richard Ayers 



Price $1.25 






POEMS 



By 
AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 




Private Lenard Richard Ayers 



Y 3 1 & 



COPYRIGHT 1919 

By LENARD AYERS 

All rights reserved 



Published by 

Argus Publishing Company 

Minneapolis, Minn. 



©CI.A530387 



i 



JUL 31 WI3 



POEMS BY 
AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 

Private Lenard Richard Ayers 



PREDICATED to the rank and file, the "buck pri- 
*~^ vates," who did their part in the great war by- 
doing everything that came their way. 



TO THE "BUCK" 

That was his rank, a buck, a buck, 

And sometimes he cursed and damned his luck. 

Three meals of "slum," perhaps each day. 

Allotments and such diminished his pay; 

And leaky billets made him swear 

At the cooties that crept thru his underwear — 

But he was a stayer, he stuck and stuck, 

And amazed the world by his pluck. 

So here's to him with his Yankee grin. 

The front rank and rear rank, 

The K. P. and near rank, 

The fighting man, the lowly "buck." 



*Slum — beef stew. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



IN PICARDY 



i 

The twinkling stars in Picardy, 
Shine high and bright and clear. 
From afar where they are, 
They look, and see, and hear 
In piteous tones the dying moans 
Of loved ones they hold dear, 
And seeing all the ravished lands, 
They raise their little misty hands 
And wipe away for France a tear. 

II 

The moon once shown in radiance 

High in the sky adorning, 

But now perchance she mourns for France 

In blackest clouds of mourning; 

For the little church in Bellpre town 

She can no longer see — 

The vandals lewdly tore it down; 

So in a shroud of darkest cloud 

She mourns for stricken Picardy. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THAT OLD FRENCH WOMAN AND HER 
BARNLOFT 



I am sleeping in the barnloft, 

I, and some of my comrades. 

The loft has others living in it, 

Many rats and mice have lived there 

Ever since the days of Joan of Arc. 

The roof is made of clay tiles. 

It is old and full of leaks. 

Whenever the rain comes drizzling thru 

My bed is an island. 

The old woman that owns the house 

Is young for her many years. 

Her husband died for France, 

She showed me his number tag. 

She has three boys to raise. 

They will be soldiers in the next war. 

She has long strings of hot garlic 

Hanging from the rafters in the kitchen. 

She washes clothes for American soldiers. 

She pounds them white on a flat stone. 

The Americans always pay well, 

And the children must have bread. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



ME AND MY BUNKIE 



i 

Irish eyes and bright red hair 
Had he, my bunkie. 
Always singing, free from care 
Was my happy bunkie. 

II 

Shared his last cent with me 
Did my free-hearted bunkie. 
Never once did disagree — 
Me and my bunkie. 

Ill 

On the plains of Kansas, he 
Bunked in the same tent with me. 
Smoked the same cob pipe did we— 
Me and my bunkie. 

IV 

We would laugh at each other's jokes, 
Compare the' letters from our folks, 
Shared our joys and our smokes — 
Me and my bunkie. 

V 

And when we crossed the wide Atlantic, 
Seasickness nearly drove us frantic. 
I was sick and so was he — 
Me and my bunkie. 

VI 

Trained in France, a month or so, 
Then together to the trench did go. 
Resolved to die if need might be 
Was me and my bunkie. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



ME AND MY BUNKIE— Cont. 



VII 

In the trenches for many a day- 
Big attack and Hell to pay — 
Kind of scared at first were we, 

Me and him, my bunkie. 

VIII 

Came the order, "charge the foe" — 

Over the top we two did go, 

Side by side, I and he 

Together went we, me and my bunkie. 

IX 

A flying shrapnel struck Jim, 

Just tore the insides out of him — 

A red mist swam before the eyes of me, 

And my steel sank deep in the guts of three, 

But never again alive would I see 

The brave lad who had been a bunkie to me. 



And the letter I wrote to his mother 
Far across the wide tossing sea; 
Said, "Jim was brave, never another 
Will be as good a bunkie to me." 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



WHEN I RETURN AGAIN 



i 

When I return again, 

The birds will sing once more. 

Forgotten will be then 

The ghastly things of war. 

I'll grasp my mother by the hand, 

I'll hear the blaring of the band, 

And this a recompense will be 

For all these months of misery. 

II 

11 hear the church bell's golden chimes, 
11 kiss my love an hundred times. 
11 smell the blossoms on the trees, 
11 hear the humming of the bees, 
11 thank my God and say "Amen" — 
When I return from France again. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THAT PICTURE IN HIS O. D. SHIRT 



i 

His country had called him and you knew he must go, 
You gave to him a picture, as the sun was setting low — 
You kissed him and gave it to him in the twilight glow, 

And as he turned to leave you, your heart so sore and hurt 
Saw him kiss your picture and place it in his shirt. 

II 

Perhaps you thought it strange, because he didn't write, 
But just the same, dear girl, he thought of you each night; 
And just before the dawn when signals call for fight, 

And when the big shells whine, and bursting throw up dirt — 
He sneaks a look at that picture in his o. d. shirt: 

III 

That picture's kind of faded now, and worn some away — 
Why shouldn't it be when he looks at it each day? 
Ever since the armistice he has seemed kind of gay, 

And I heard him saying, that a steamer soon would spurt 
Him to the vision he carries, in his heart and shirt. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



GIRLS AND YOU 



There are girls in many lands, 

With varied wile, and subtle graces. 
There are girls with slender hands, 

And girls with lovely faces. 
Some with skins of olive tan, 

And lips a crimson pout, 
And smiles for which any man 

Would tear his heart clear out — 
But there's just one girl for me, 

One lass beneath the skies, 
She holds my heart in chancery 

By the spell of her dear eyes. 
And when this weary war shall end — 

And end it shall, as all wars do; 
I hope the tides of fortune send 

Me back, sweetheart, to home, and you. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



YOUR LADDIE WILL COME BACK 



Dear eyes of blue 
Why are you sad? 

Is he gone too — 
Your brave young lad? 



II 



Mother with a heart 

Filled with aching misery; 
Laddie's brave young part 

Will be for thee. 

Ill 

Hell come back some day. 

A better, stronger man. 
Ever with you to stay — 

Cheer up mother, you can. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



IT'S NICE TO feE A SOLDIER 



i 

Oh it's nice to be a soldier, 
And parade down the street, 
And make eyes at the pretty girls, 
That you, by chance, will often meet. 
But when the weather is colder, 
And your barracks are warm, 
It's nice to be a sturdy soldier — 
On guard duty in a storm. 

II 

Oh it's nice to be a soldier, 

And wear a uniform, 

And pack a gun upon your shoulder, 

When the weathers neither cold nor warm. 

Oh it's nice to be a soldier, 

When the ladies admire and see — 

But, you don't feel so dawg gone good, 

Int he way that you should — 

When she comes to see you, 

And you're on K. P. 

K. P. — Kitchen police. 



10 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



SONG OF A SmLOIN STEAK 



The little village of Rouge mont lay quiet and still, 

Drowsing in the sunshine, on a wooded hill. 

A crap game bloomed in every door, 

("The ghost had walked " the night before). 

The mademoiselles were making eyes, 

The madams were making "French fries". 

The "dough boys, " ever ready to drink and eat 

Were trading francs for eggs, wine and meat. 

Close by a large and shallow lake 

A bunch of "buddies" were cooking steak. 

Seven privates owned it, 

And thought it a lovely prize. 

They fried it with onions, 

And watched it with hungry eyes. 

They seasoned it with salt and pepper, 

And sat it on a stone to cool — 

A hungry hound grabbed it, and "beat it" — 

My Gosh! but life is cruel! 

(Ghost had walked) — Pay day. 
"Doughboys" — Infantrymen of the ranks. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



A MOTHER'S HYMN 



i 

It seemed to me but yesterday, 
Since my laddie marched away. 

He was still a baby to me, 
Yet in a day, he grew a man. 

And now, he's making history 
As a real true American. 

II 

Somewhere in France the stars are peeping 

On a boy that belongs to me. 
Somewhere in France he is sleeping, 

Somewhere far over the sea. 
Oh God, watch beside him, 

I ask of you, for me, 
Guard, watch and guide him, 

And bring him back to me. 

' III 

When evening shadows are falling, 
When crickets are shrilly calling, 

When the sun in scarlet splendor 
Sinks beyond the western rim; 

Then's the time thoughts so tender 
Come back to me of him. 



12 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



DESCRIPTIVE OF A SUMMER DAY 



i 

The day is drowsy and humid, 
The world seems half asleep. 
The hum of bees low murmuring, 
And the bleat of new born sheep 
Render a faint chansonning — 
Soft and low yet pleasing. 

II 

The meadows are clothed in purple, 

In purple and yellow and green, 
In nodding clover, purple sweet, 
Tall waving grass of emerald sheen, 
And endless seas of golden wheat 
In serried ranks, trim and neat. 



Ill 

The flowers are praying for rain; 

See, how the rose bows her head! 
And the violets say, "Rain, I pray, 
Come soon, or my life is fled. 

The scorching sun with withering ray 
Will blight me ere the close of day." 

IV 

It comes, far from the south, 

Bank on bank in inky cloud, 
Rolling northward as though night 
Had come with rapid drum fire loud; 
The rain it comes with lightning bright, 
The flowers stand with heads upright. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 13 



MY FIRST NOBILITY. (Mile. Paulline 
Murat) 

I have just met my first comtes. 

It all occurred in a peculiar way. 

My regiment was in waiting at Mez eray, 

To be deloused and sent to Saint Nazaire. 

I started walking this morning, in search 

Of a creek in which I might bathe. 

The walk was cool and pleasant ; 

Tall pines lined the road on either side. 

I found one creek but it was not fit 

For a soldier of Yankee birth to bathe in. 

The water was green with stagnation, 

And a million frogs were garumphing 

To each other from a million lily pads ; 

As they pessimistically predicted rain. 

A squad of geese cruised in battle formation 

Across the sluggish backwaters; 

Searching in the bottom mire for food. 

While now and then a water snake 

Slid sneakily away at my approach. 

Tired of gazing at the swampy creek, 

I wandered on, until at the end 

Of a magnificent grove of beeches, 

The castle burst upon my view. 

It was totally unexpected, I did not know 

There even was a castle at the grove's end. 

I sat beneath an elderly beech, 

And admired at least a dollar's worth. 

And then I asked at the servant's hut, 

As to who lived in the castle, 

And was told it was the Comte and Comtes Murat, 

And that the Comtes was an English lady. 
"Well," I said (to myself), "that being the case, 

Perhaps, she would like to hear a little English." 

And to the maid, Antoinette, I said (in French), 
"I wish to 'tete a tete' with madame." 

The Comtes was very gracious to me, 

Only it happened there had been a misunderstanding 

Between Antoinette and myself, as the Comtes 



14 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



MY FIRST NOBILITY. (Mile. Pauline 
Murat)— Cont. 

Was in reality French, but spoke English. 
We chatted of various things, and she 
Seemed much interested in America, 
And the U. S. A. in particular, and said 
That the castle was sometimes lonely, 
As visitors were few and far between, 
And that I was the first American soldier 
In all of her lifelong experience; 
And I laughed and told her.it was mutual, 
And that she was my first nobility; 
And that I was glad to meet her — 
And that it was worth missing a bath 
Anv dav in the calander. 



* 



Aeroplane Snapped 400 Feet in Air 



POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POET 15 



TRENCH RATS 

(Written at 2 a. m., while gas sentry in front line dugout.) 



Above, below, and in and out — 

You squeak and squeal and run about. 

Across the floor you run and chase, 

And over all in this place. 

Rats big and rats small 

From out the floor and the wall 

You peep, and peer, and sneak and crawl 

Watching me hungrily, with beady eyes 

As though you wish I were your size. 

You big devil, dive into your crack, 

Or I'll jab this knife into your back 

What Gen Sherman said is right — 

Gas sentry by dim candle light 

Watching rats crawl all the night 




Peaceful French Village in a Valley 



16 POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POET 



DESOLATION 



The sun in scarlet splendor 

Sinks beyond the western hills, 

And the blood red poppies 

Close their tired eyes in sleep, 

And lean upon the faded wooden crosses near. 

The moon in golden radiance, 

Slow rising o'er a ruined tower 

Seems searching for the evil enemy. 

In heaps of ruin the village lies, 

All silent, drear and dead. 

Upon an uptorn hawthorn tree, 

Ill-omen of the silent place 

An ebon vulture peering sets. 

Far from northward comes the surflike boom 

Of mighty monster cannon thundering 

Out a challenge of defiance — 

Making night a ghastly dream. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 17 



THE TRENCH CAT 

IN FIVE MEOWS 

(Note of Explanation: — At the beginning of the great 
war, England sent 5,000,000 cats to the trenches as a relief 
measure against the rats which were very numerous and large. 
The rats are all there yet, but few of the cats remain.) 

I 

Poor specie of the feline race, 

Unloved and forlorn you roam 
All about this cussed place, 

(Your nearest approach to a home). 

II 

Were it not for the "wild beef stew" 

That kind "dough boys" contribute, 
You would be thinner than your mew; 

You homeless, half-starved brute. 

Ill 

Poor cat, England was your native shore 

Where rats grew but common size ; — 
But twice as large these rats of war, 

And horrors, how they mobilize ! 

IV 

In the night your sad soprano song 

Makes me think how sad your lot must be. 

You are weak, but they are strong^- 
They chase you in a trance of ecstasy. 



Ah fat, sad fate! Oh cat so thin, 

You that were meant for an old maid's chair- 
What have you done — what awful sin — 

That you are here and not there? 

Wild beef stew" — Corn beef, "monkey mutton." 



18 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



v i 




- — 


1 


. V ||j 'MM 


H'-' 


■■ .-::>; 


■■■• '5 f ii**r^mi i ^-,-a.'-& 




H96 


| BONNET Ij 

IviniiiRS-H 

, if / i K:1 





Milestone and American Motorcycle Driver on 
Road of France 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 19 



BELGIUM WE LOVE YOU 

(DANS TRIBUTE A LA belgigue) 

The sweet hearts of Belgium are dead — 
but the whole world is Belgium's sweetheart. 

I 

Though you were weak and small, 
You gave your best, and gave it all. 
You fought bravely to the glorious end, 
And this message to you we send: 

II 

Brave hearts of women and of men 
May you rise from your ruins again, 
And your name go vaulting to the sky, 
And flame each night in stars on high. 

Ill 

Not in vain are your martyred dead 
Whose blood dyed the poppies a deeper red: — 
As true, as true as there is Heaven above you, 
Belgium, brave Belgium, we, America, love you. 



20 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET . 



COIFFEUR DE REGIMENTAL 

BONNET, FRANCE, FEBRUARY, 1919 

By the old Rue Grand of this little town, 
On the right hand side as you go down ; 
In the venerable maison of Jacques Marutt 
Is the barber shop de soldier where the barbers cut. 
On a chilly frozen morning in the month of February, 
I decided to hie there, because I was over hairy; 
So I curried up my horses down in billet four, 
Then hiked it to the coiffeurs and opened the door. 

A barber turned to greet me, arising from his chair, 

(The chair was a beer keg), and bade me set down there. 

Then he started in to trim with a pair of rusty shears, 

And sometimes he cut hair, and other times my ears; 

And as he hewed, he talked, and odors of wine 

Mixed with his repartee and those curly locks of mine. 

He talked of timely topics in a voice loud and clear, 

He discussed woman suffrage, and armistice and beer; 

Then he'd drop a subject and try another tack, 

While I felt stray hairs itching down the middle of my back. 

At last he was fini* fiddling with my hair,. 

So he brushed away the fragments, and I gave him a pair 

Of francs*, both new and shiny to the optic view, 

And departed talking with me, rumors — thirty-two. 

*Fini — through. 
*Franc — French coin. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 21 




Washing Clothes at Gondrecourt, France 



22 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



SOLILIQUY ADDRESSED TO A COOTIE 

Oh cootie, you are but a little thing, 

Yet once you get a start, 

Ycu are the darndest thing 

On earth, from which to part. 

In hours of tranquil ease 

Your crawling everywhere 

On me you raise families, 

On me they daily fare. 

I wonder, oh coot, if you were in the ark 7 

I'll bet you slipped up on Noah, in the dark. 

No! No! You're not all the same — 

I know you all by name^ 

There's Job and Methusalah, they're old and tame, 

While Lizzie and Pete and Katie and Herman, 

Keep me busy — I think they must be German! 

In war. cutie cootie, you have food and housing, 

Peace is Hell for you — they start delousing! 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 23 



IT WASN'T YOUR FAULT 



Henry Jones ran a grocery store, 

Up in Minnesota. 
Henry went to war 

To fill his country's quota. 
He hung a sign above the door. 

This is what it said - 
"Good-bye, old friends, for I've swore 

To see the Kaiser dead." 
Too bad ! Too bad ! 

You itched for German meat, 
Yet they put you in the D. B.*, 

Because you had flat feet. 
Yours is but a single case. 

There are thousands more 
Who itched to see a foreign trench. 

And hear the cannons roar. 
The broad gold stripes are not for you. 

But don't regret and swear and sweat. 
For you'll receive your honest due. 

The nation won't forget in stress that you were true. 
A nation is an ant heap! 

See the ants how they dart ! 
Each one does his little all 

To make the mighty part. 

f D. B. — Depot brigade. 



24 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



HOB NAIL PRINTS 

(AS SEEN BY madam) 

The war is ended, triumphant our score, 

But still is seen the prints of war 
On the stones of our kitchen floor; 

Where once the Yanks, tall and hearty,. 
But not always light of care 

Would come for their supper party 
On the toothsome pomme de terre*. 

There are hob prints in the hay loft, 
There are hob prints on the stair. 

In every nook, hard or soft, 
I find them everywhere. 

Hob nail prints in France's every part 
Leading west ways to the setting sun ; — 

But not a hob nail print on France's heart 
Left by a thoughtless one. 

*Pomme de terre — potatoes. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 25 



THE EX-MESS SERGEANT'S DREAM 

YEAR OF 1960 

The mess sergeant to his bones surcease, 
One night had a deep dream of peace. 
He beheld a dispeptic angel in the room ; 
With a K. P. badge on his breast, 
And in his hands a golden broom. 

"Shrink not from me," the vision said, 

"For nineteen months with you I fed. 

I ate your slum, morn, noon and night 

And always had a good appetite. 

'Twas forty years ago or more 

When we were in that foreign war. 

I was only a back-rank buck, 

That was my rank, I stayed and stuck, 

Until I got hit by a truck, 

While hiking back from Kaiser's bruck. 

Peter welcomed me with a golden smile, 

And he said, ' I see you're late. 

We've needed you for quite a while 

To wipe our cups and golden plate. 

There's too many up here whanging the lyre, 

So please start up our heatless fire.' 

For forty years I 've fed and fed 

"On angel food and Heaven bread, 

And Paradise bubbles in nectar sips; — 

And oh, I know 'twould be relief, 

If I could get once more these lips 

Around a chunk of canned corn beef." 

The sergeant gave a joyous moan, 

Away the specter fast did leap. 

The alarm clock buzzed in whirring tone. 

And woke him from his sleep. 

He shook his wife in angry ire, 

And said, "Get up Nell, and build the fire." 



26 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 




Old Cathedral at Toul, France 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 27 



AMBITIONS OF A GROWING BOY 



When I was but a little boy 

I thought it grand to be 
A policeman, or pugilist, 

Or a sailor on the sea. 
I thought it must be great 

To be the leader of a band, 
And wave a little stick about 

With ease and manner grand. 
To prance before an audience, 

While the violins sobbed low. 
And be the god of giddy girls, 

Seemed fame to me not long ago; — 
But time has changed my notions, 

And I think I'd sooner get 
To be a man like Benny Gray; — 

A soldier and a gold stripe "vet."' 



28 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



MOANS OF A REGULAR 

(APRIL, 1918) 

Last summer, filled with a desire 
For romance and adventure, 
Tired of the dull commonplace 
Of being a slave to a time clock, 
I entered the U. S. Army. 
The recruiting officer earnestly assured me, 
"That I would be in France, 
In a few short weeks — " 
(Which suited me exactly) 
" If I enlisted as a stretcher bearer 
In the Medical Corp." I did. 
A few weeks of hard and rigorous training — 
Living in tents, eating our meals 
I.n the open air, out of tin pans, 
{And picking grasshoppers from our soup), 
And then we were shipped to cantonments. 
Camps in which there were no men, 
Save the^ carpenters and builders 
Who were rapidly erecting barracks 
Of soft pine, and transforming a cornfield 
Into an unpainted city. 
In September the first draft bsgan. 
The "rookies" came pouring in. 
God! but they were a stoop shouldered bunch.! 
The camp hummed with bustling life, 
Like the buzz of a giant hornet. 
In stentorian tones the hard shell Non Corns.* 
Bellowed, "Squads right," "Right dress," etc. 
All the warm bright days of Autumn, 
While I dispensed pills and castor oil. 
Then came the day when our regiment 
Were all "sent east," except a few of us 
Were left behind to train the next quota. 
Being in a hospital, I had to stay 
To help examine the next bunch of newcomers. 
They came in February, and again 
The camp bustled with life, 
But only for a few short weeks; 
*Non Commissioned Officers. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 29 



MOANS OF A REGULAR— Cont. 



Then, they too were "sent east." 
While I — I was left behind 
To examine niggers from Alabama. 
Oh slush! Such is life! 




Billet No. 24 (1 officer, 32 men) 



30 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



ONE YEAR AGO THIS SPRING 



I sit alone 'neath the orchard trees, 

And the wind comes murmuring 
With the drowsy hum of working bees, 

And hushed sweet songs of Spring. 
Is there room for sadness, 

When all seems bright and gay? 
An ecstasy of gladness 

Seems to hold the heart in sway; 
Yet, an under current of grief 

Grips me now and then; 
Drags me down like a withered leaf, 

And then lets me up again. 
One year ago, my brother brave 

Sat 'neath these trees with me — 
'Mid the poppies red, in an unknown grave 

He sleeps in shell torn Picardy. 
One year ago, he pulled my hair 

And teased me 'bout my beau. 
I never any more would care, 

For I love my brother so. 
Oh flowers, you are lovely, 

And birdies you can sing, 
But not as sweet, it seems to me, 

As you were, last Spring. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 31 



THE ZINCVILLE SPECIAL 



i 

Junk heap engines full of rust, 
Cinders, smoke, and clouds of dust- 
On the Zincville Special. 

II 

Every cinder that flies 
Hunts a home in my eyes — 
On the Zincville Special. 

Ill 

The time goes dragging by; 
All the babies fret, or cry — 

On the Zincville Special. 

IV 

All the world's worst cigars 
Fog in the smoking cars — 

On the Zincville Special. 

V 

And when the Kaiser dies, — oh well 
I hope they send him down to H — L 
On the Zincville Special!! 



32 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE LADY KILLER 

(AFTER GEORGE ADE) 

Once upon a time there was 

A Private at Camp Dodge — 

(Many Privates have come and gone, 

But He is the Subject of This.) 

He had a good Stalwart Figure 

Wore his hair in a Pompadour, 

And was almost Handsome — 

Had it not been for a Roman nose. 

At drill he was a "Bear," 

At dances he was There. 

Had it not been for his conceit, 

He would have been a Good Indian. 

But he thought himself a Juggler 

Of Ladies' Hearts — In Other Words 

The Owner of a Monopoly 

While they — they listened to him 

Chiefly because his Chin Music 

Was Amusing to Them. 

His Fellow Scouts were Bored to Death, 

By his Tales of Conquest, 

And when he went On High 

Would Tip each other The Wink — 

The Poor Fish, If his Wife only Knew. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 33 



MUSINGS ON SPRING 



At last, the icy chains that held 

The land in frozen thrall lie broken. 

Old Winter vanquished, filled with terror, 

Flees forth beyond the Magnet Pole. 

The grass, long sere and brown, 

An emerald is vast and green. 

Gay minstrel robin, brown coat, red vest, 

Returned from sunny southland sings merrily. 

Shy violets with startled eyes peep forth 

From shaded nooks, to greet the sun with pleasure, 

And all the human hearts, that cold 

And stony were, seem to melt a little 

In the glad warm sunshine of the new born Spring. 





- ; 








a 




ll 








" 


# 


'0P 


pfl 








i 








<Hj 




w 


» 











French Canal and Barge near Bar-le-Duc 



34 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



A SOLDIER'S RING 



He sat a mud stained and begrimed figure, 

And he seemed to be in a reverie; 

As he gazed at a ring on his finger. 

It was only a cheap little ring, 

And yet, he valued it. most highly. 

It was dearer to him than a ring 

With a blazing gem in it — 

For it had once encircled the finger 

Of a girl "back home," who had placed 

It upon his finger as they kissed 

And said good-bye — long, long ago. 

He seemed to be in a dreamy reverie, 

As he gazed on the little ring. 

A shrapnel shell burst over above him — 

It was only a cheap little ring. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 35 



SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 



The boys are marching thru the dull grey mist of dawn, 

With mud-caked hobs, and faces grim and drawn. 

Far away the shriek of shrapnel and the cannons' dull boom 

Comes beating surflike thru the fog and gloom. 

They've been marching, marching all the dank, dark night, 

But still the drawn of day finds them ready for the fight. 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds the thud of tired feet. 

Onward! Ever onward! Never to retreat. 

With faces grim and silent they are ready for the fray. 

They have no time for petty things in the part they play. 

They're fighting for democracy in the battle's numbing din, 

And though some may fall, they lost but to win, 

And when the war is over we can say with all our heart, 

That the boys we sent to Europe did every one their part. 



36 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



SOUVENIRS LA GUERRE 



Jimmy Jones got Fritzie's helmet for a souvenier, 

Pat Casey sent an Iron Cross to his Molly dear. 

Souveniers, souveniers from the defeated Hun 

Just to show the home folks how we done. 

One "bird" sent home a sword and tassel, 

Another a brick from Bingen castle; 

But I have no souveniers, no curious prize 

Upon which you may feast your eyes — 

Soft and grateful, from lips warm and wet, 

Kisses to a deliverer — from the French maid Annette. 

Mine are where no human eye can see, 

Hidden in the storehouse of golden memory. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



37 



SPRING IN BONNET, 1919 



Oh it's glorious to be out in the sunshine, 

With the birds singing overhead, 

And hear the sigh of the lonely pine 

As beneath I lie on a ferny bed; 

And gaze for an hour 

At a far distant tower, 

But naught of it do I see ; 

Only memories, and dreams instead 

Of life and love and mystery. 




Hospital Men Lifting Wounded into Ambulance 



38 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



TO RAGNA 



At the hour of twilight 

When the shadows fall, 
A soft and dusky veil 

That covers over all — 
I am thinking of you, darling, 

And I hear you call, 
I'm lonely for you, sweetheart, 

Far across the endless sea, 
And I know you're sighing, soldier mine, 

For the days that used to be." 
In the stars "the sign of Mars" 

Bade us kiss and part; 
But your face I can't erase — 

'Tis etched and graven on my heart. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 39 



HOW BILL JINX WON THE CROIX DE 
GUERRE 

(AS TOLD BY HIM TO me) 

A paper hanger was Bill Jinx from his early youth; 
Hung paper in various shades and hue, 
In Canada, and Cuba, and in Duluth; 
In houses old and mansions new, 
And his story sounds like the truth, 
So I'll tell it to you. 
(I met him in a city park 
As a nearby clock was striking ten, 
And the lights were shining in the dark.) 
In France he said he'd been 
With a printer and a chemist, 
Pals and soldiers, brave and square; — 
And how with naked first 
He had won the Croix de Guerre. 
It was in the sector of Champagne, 
Where the shrapnel fell like rain. 
Dawn till dark, always going, never stopping; 
Bullets pinged, death swift winged, ever dropping 
Until the chemist, made sad and wiser 
Thought a way to ire the Kaiser. 
Pondered on his former trade. 
And a stock of laughing gas he made. 
Made huge cans of funny vapor, 
And the printer printed paper 
With messages from Hohen Will, 
And all was ready for Jinx — front name Bill; 
So they shot the gas into the Germans, 
And thru the air a moment after 
Was heard the Fritzies, Heinies, Hermans, 
Roaring, giggling, in a mighty wave of laughter, 
Until at last exhausted they fell upon their "tummies.'' 
Over the shell holes of No Man's Land 
Went Bill, paste, pot, brush and posters in hand, 
And on each prostrate Hun he pasted his "gummies." 
The first Fritzie awoke and read a sign 
Upon his prone comrade's pack, 
"I, Wilhem der gros, dis command is mine, 



40 POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POET 



HOW BILL JINX WON THE CROIX DE 
GUERRE— Cont. 



Order you to obey and go back 

As prisoners to that dog Yankee line, 

And deach der Cherman kultur fine." 
" Ach Gott, der all high it say, 

Den I must vent vunce and obey." 

"Two million prisoners that day," 

Said my comrade on the bench, 
"We captured 80 cannon and 20 miles of trench, 

And that is the reason I wear 

Upon my virile breast this Croix de Guerre." 

(As I said before, the night was dark, 

As we sat on that bench in the middle of the park.) 

I listened to his story, I harkened to it all, 

Held by its glory, spellbound with its thrall;— 

And I thought, this tale is true, 

But on the Croix in letters small 

Were these words — "Made in Kalamazoo." 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 41 




Castle of Former Duke of Lorraine in which Napoleon III 
for a time was kept prisoner. Built A. D. 1400, 



42 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE DISGRUNTED MARINE, A. D. '19 

Yes I joined the army in 1917, 

I was full of patriotic stuff, 
There was fighting in my bean*. 

I listened to a bunch of "guff"* 
And enlisted, a Marine. 

I saw all there was to see. 
I did everything once, that's me. 

"I've "crabbed" and "groused" with the rest, 
I've been both sad and cherry, 

I've fought and bled with the best 
At Belleau and Chateau Thierry. 

I've traveled to Hell in a box car 
With forty other men — 

Packed like sardines in a jar 
In a space meant for ten; — 

Yet if there came another war 
I'd do it all over again. 

But today I'm feeling mean — 
You can bet a cookie! 

They got me guarding a latrine 
Just like some big green "rookie."* 

*Bean — head. 

*Guff — slang for talk. 

*" Crabbed," "groused" — get mad at conditions. 

" Rookie "—recruit. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



43 



A CRUST OF BREAD 



A crust of bread, a crust of bread — 

Black and hard of coarse milled wheat, 

Soaked in wine of crimson red 

Was the bearded "poilu's" noontide treat; 

Yet with a careless gesture gay, 

He shared it with a comrade, asking no pay. 

Then rising from this lowly feast, 

On sore aching feet, 

They joined the rank of valor spelling Hun defeat. 

A simple act, perhaps it was no more 

Yet fraught with sacrifice the stamp it bore 

Of the truly great who guard France's door. 




Repairing Roads in Northern France (Winter 1919) 



44 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



VILLAGE IN NORTHERN FRANCE 

WINTER, 1918 
I 

Narrow, crooked, old Grand Rue! 

Amazing, dirty, rough cobblestoned, Grand Rue! 

Maisons* of moldering stone and mortar, 

Crumbling, sagging towards each other, 

As though of the dreary sameness weary 

And confiding it to each other. 

II 

The vin cafe heeds not her ragged sisters. 

Her cloak of white paint is imposing. 

War brings to her but few sorrows, 

For many soldiers of many nations 

Come to her each night with many francs,* 

And setting beneath her smoky rafters, 

(Oak rafters blackened with the cigarette fumes 

Of generations of soldiers and revelers — ) 

Drink bittery, sour vin blanc or rouge ; 

Using the empty bottles to emphasize 

Some ribald, foot-shuffling, ragtime tune. 

Ill 

The women of the village are all lame, 
They are old with broken snags for teeth 
They are wrinkled and deformed but brave ; 
They are keeping up the homes of France. 
Eloise and Marcelle are making munitions, 
Francois and Pierre fell at Verdun — 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 45 



VILLAGE IN NORHTERN FRANCE- 
Cont. 



Blown to smithereens by a seventy-seven.* 
Pere* is old and lame with rheumatism. 
The mother is the pillar of France. 

IV 

The village cathedral is old and imposing, 
Frigid and cold, with damp inner recesses. 
Standing aloof from its neighbors 
As though not wishing to be soiled 
By the touch of beggary hands. 
Her bells, in clanging discord chime 
The quarter, half, and hour, or else 
The funeral knell of some pious peasant. 

v , 

f 

A long line of bobbling olive drab, 

Pushing, shoving, trying to be first. 

Rattling knives and forks beating time 

On ten dozen empty mess kits. 

Goodnatured profanity and calls "to hurry." 

Two red-faced, fat, perspiring'army cooks, 

And a half dozen kitchen police carrying pans 

Of steaming hot coffee, beef stew, cornbread and prunes. 



46 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



VILLAGE IN NORTHERN FRANCE— 
Cont. 

The mess call is heard,, the long line moves forward. 

The cooks, ladle in hand, overflow the mess kits. 

And this is a real life picture of a village in northern France. 

*Maisons — houses . 

*Francs — French money. 

*Pere — father. 

*Seventy-seven— large German shell. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 47 



THE HARBOR LIGHTS OF NEW YORK 

(as seen from a transport's DECK, SUMMER, 1918) 



I 

Lights that shine across the bay, 

Each a winking Neptune star. 
Streaming comet from that way 

Is the searchlight of a man-of-war. 

II 

See that bloom of blazing light! 

Crowd on deck, band plays all the while. 
Cheering happy crowds, thru the night 

Go and come from Coney Isle. 

Ill 

Lonely, lonely light that shines across the sea. 

A pencil pointing ragged reefs afar. 
In silent solitude, you seem to be 

A friend to those who sailors are. 

IV 

Glowing light and red hot spot, 
Ruby ruddy gleam, but a speck. 

Soldier lying on his canvas cot 

Smokes and dreams on transport's deck. 



48 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE ARMY GROUCH 



He carries the glooms and miseries 

Of a multitude, around him like a halo. 

His presence puts the quietus 

On all the festivities; for like 

A Laplander at an Irish wake 

He cannot understand why people 

Should be gay while he is miserable. 

The dinner may be excellent, 

Yet he will eat until full, 

And then kick like a centipede 

About, "the rotten stuff they feed us." 

He is like a dried out sponge. 

Soaks in all the joy around him, 

But, unlike the sponge, never let's 

Anything out that he takes in. 




Main Street of a Small French Village 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 49 



LINES TO A SLACKER 



What though you are safe today, 

Hiding behind your petty fears — 

What will you have to say, 

(About the cowards part you played) 

In future years, 

When you are old and gray? 

When little children to you turn, 

And cuddle on your knees and play — 

Will not the flush of shame burn 

On your cheeks, if they 

Should turn to you and say, 

"Granddad, were you a soldier too? 

Did you fight? What did you do?' 

And then what will be your reply? 

YOU DUTY SHIRKER, afraid to die! 



50 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



OUR "TOP KICKER" 



i 

He walks with silent stateliness, 

In a manner of his own. 
His voice sounds sweet and soothingly, 

When a private "pulls a bone." 

II 

His gentle voice we hear 

Each morn, as we are snoozing happy. 
Soft and low, as a Texas steer 

He chirps, "Fall in and make it snappy. 

Ill 

He leads a peaceful, joyous life — 
Seeing that others do not shirk, 

His life is calm, without strife, 
And nothing to do — but work. 

; Top kicker — first sergeant. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 51 



IT'S A GAY LIFE 



i 

The day's work is over, 

And the reason I know 'tis so. 
Is because a rookie bugler 
"Taps" is trying to blow. 

II 

The camp is clothed in darkness, 
Save the lights out in the street, 

And I hear the tramp of number tens, 
As the sentries pace their beat. 

Ill 

A feeling of disgust and longing 

Comes to me, more and more, 
As the fellow next to me 

Proceeds to groan and snore. 

IV 

My fingers itch to hit him, 

And stop his sad refrain ; 
But more in sorrow than anger — 

I know 'twould be in vain. 

V 

At last I sink in slumber, 

And dream of some thing or other. 
Darn that bugle! It's got my number — 

It's a gay life, if you don't weaken, brother 1 



52 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE SPIRIT OF AMERICA 



i 

The will to do, the will to die, 

The will to fight at any cost, 

The will to look all in the eye, 

The will to fight when the fight is lost 

II 

We shall win, win we must; 
For the battle we fight 
Is the battle of right,' 
And the war we wage is just! 

Ill 

Nor for power and pelf 

Did our troops cross over the sea. 

Not for glory, or name for self, 

But the fight for right — 

And right means victory. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 53 



FIGHTING FOR "SOMEONE" 



i 

I wonder why I'm here today? 
My soul replies, '"for someone." 
Why must I go from home away ? 
Because, because of "someone." 
I hear the tramp of marching feet 
Upon the roads in cadence beat, 
But above it all I hear the call, 
The call — the call of "someone." 

II 

The work I have is hard to do, 
But when I return there's "someone" 
With eyes of blue, whose heart is true- 
But now there's work to be done. 
I must go to fight the foe, 
Where death and dager is, but oh 
The greatest joy for man, or boy, 
Is just to fight for "someone." 



54 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



PART TWO 



VERS DE AMOUR 



Woman is God's best gift to man, 
And the hardest one to keep. 
Hold His gift, while you can — 
But hold her not too cheap. 




A French Family. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 55 



THE SWEETEST WORD 

There are words of joy, 

That happy hearts employ. 

There are many words I confess. 
But, the sweetest word, 
By a man e'er heard — 

Is when the girl he loves says, "Yes. 



THE JOY SUBLIME 

There comes a time to us all, 

When life is full of roses. 
But, the joy sublime, that makes ours smal 

An old maid feels when a man proposes ! 



YOUTH 

Youth ! Youth ! Carefree and gay ! 

Gambling in futures for visionary sums. 
Throwing away the gold of today. 

For a to-morrow that never comes. 



56 POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POET 



GINA O'DEYN 

MON IDEAL 

Her heart beats in her finger tips and when she says, "good 
day." 



I 

I've dreamt of you in dreams, 

At night, when all was still. 
I've seen your face in the moon beams 

That played with the whip-poor-will. 

II 

Your eyes I've seen in the starlight, 
Your lips in the bud of a passion rose, 

Your tresses in mantles of darkest night, 
Your teeth in the pearls of Alpian snows. 

Ill 

I did not know when I'd meet you. 

Whether in cab, or park, or street; — 
Only, some day, I would greet you, 

Some dav our eyes would meet. 



POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POET 57 



MILADY'S HAND 



A hand to smoothe, 
A hand to caress. 

A hand to soothe, 
A hand to bless. 

A hand to kiss, 
A hand to cherish. 

A hand I'll miss, 

When it doth perish. 



CIVILIZATION 



A shallow path worn in stone, 
By the tread of countless feet. 

By the living and those long gone. 

But never a rut worn bottomless deep. 



EPIGRAM ON LOVE 



Love, like wine, 

Old and heady 
Gives a feeling fine, 

But makes the brain unsteady. 



58 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THEY ARE MANY 



Some men in this world I've knew 
Who always have an argument, 

On which they want to bet with you- 
Although they never have a cent. 



DO YOU KNOW HIM? 



" I am a peaceful man," he said, 

" I could never indulge in strife.'' 

Then homeward went to the woman he had wed, 

And beat her within an inch of her life. 



TO A CRYING WOMAN 



O woman, you are so strange! 

You weep when you're glad. 

You sob when you're sad. 

And cry when you're mad. . 
You're past a mere man's mental range! 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 59 



PAR COMPREE 



A bee flew to the lips of a maiden fair; 
Perhaps there was honey on them (?) 
Then next it winged to an old man's head. 
But no — there was nothing there! 



THE HEIGHTS OF FAME 



The road to fame is rough and steep, 

Leading ever upward to the sun. 
Who would win a name, must ever upward struggling creep, 

Until the prize is won. 



BITTER SWEET 



Life cannot be all calm and sweet, 
There must be pain and toil, 

And for each pleasure that we meet 
There's a dose of castor oil. 

Bitter-sweet, sweet or bitter, 
Make the best of it you can. 

The world don't love a quitter, 
Take your medicine like a man. 



60 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE REASON WHY 



i 

'Woman's place is in the home," 

The outraged husband cried, 
Wine to "suff." meetings had begun to roam, 

And it hurt his manly pride. 

II 

Why they would vote is queer! 

The world would go to smash ! 
The one and only woman's sphere — 

Is sewing shirts and making hash. 

Ill 

And the reason why he raved and swore, 
You never would, or could have guessed — 

Because a hole in his pants had tore, 

And three buttons were loose on his vest. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 61 



ON RETURNING JULIA'S LETTER 



i 

These messenger birds of love 
Flew from their nest to me, 

Yet ever as a wounded dove, 
Homeward they return to thee. 

II 

Awhile they stopt at my door, 

I read their message true. 
Life cannot be as before, 

Sweetheart, because of you. 

Ill 

A bleeding wound in my heart, 

Dull agony's throb I feel. 
Perhaps time may cure the smart; 

Perchance another's love may heal. 

IV 

And, so dear love, I say adieux, 
May God protect, and guide you. 

May your sorrows be small and few, 
And the angels walk beside you. 



62 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



I WONDER IF SHE— 

i 

I would I had a thousand tongues, 

And if I Owned the same, 
I'd shout until I burst my lungs 

The name — the name — her name. 

II 

She stole it with her eyes. 

Shall I lose my heart in vain? 
Perhaps to her 'twas one more prize 

To show some future swain. 

Ill 

And yet, and yet, she smiled on me, 
When last we met not long ago. 

Why should the sun shine tenderly 
If it presage the coming snow? 

LAMENT 

i 

The glade once filled with happiness, 

Is silent now and still ; 
And she who walked in loveliness 

Lies buried on the hill. 

II 

Oh God, she left an empty place 

In my soul and heart! 
In my dreams I see her gentle face, 

And yearning, I wake with a start. 

Ill 

The woods where we were wont to stroll 

Are gloomy now and drear. 
'Tis winter in a strong man's soul, 

Though summer now is here. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



63 




{ * 



"4. V 



i W.*-< h^ ' 



SnowScene in Northern France. 



64 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



LAST NIGHT I DREAMT OF YOU 



i 

'I thought I heard you calling me, 
Last night, as I lay dreaming, 

And love, my soul flew to thee, 

Drawn by your bright eyes gleaming. 

II 

I saw your lips, those lips divine, 

Lift up to meet my own; 
And then all Heaven's joys were mine, 

For you were mine, and mine alone. 

Ill 

Oh it is a vagrant sunbeam — 
This dream that you love me, 

Or just a bit of moon gleam 
Cast on a lonely sea ? 

IV 

It is only the starlight, 

That comes a peeping thru 
When the moon is hid on a dreary night- 

This dream, sweetheart, of you? 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 65 



TO RAGNA 



i 

When my weary toil is over, 
And I homeward wend my way— 
When the ship, the ocean rover, 
Clanking anchor drops in the bay — 
To you I turn for comfort and for rest, 
And your lips red flasks revive me, 
As I hold you to my breast. 



II 

You lift my load of care, 

And fill my heart with joy; 

As you lightly smoothe my hair, 

Life is gold without alloy. 

And when clouds make dark the day, 

Your smile drives every cloud away. 



66 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE PESSIMIST 



'The whole world is wrong," 

Used to be his only song. 

The truth to see, he never could — 

He was wrong, and the world was good. 



HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? 



A cloud of gloom, a cloud of gloom, 
Settles over the fellow, who 

Likes to hear his big talk boom, 
But whom no one listens to. 



NONSENSE VERSE 



The Dodo was formerly a bird, 
Quite unique and quite absurd. 
Though a musical bird its voice was low, 
For it couldn't get higher than do do. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 67 



ANGELETTE 



i 

Oh love that is dead, 

Only your stings remain! 
Beautiful dream, swiftly fled, 

Leaving behind your waking pain 1 

II 

The sweet face still endures — 

I never shall forget 
The gentle voice of hers. 

Oh Angelette ! Fair Angelette ! 

Ill 

Oh love, mine no more! 

Oh lips I never kiss! 
Oh ship wreck on a barren shore ! 

Oh God of Love ! Another miss ! 



68 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



A TOAST 



Comfort and cheer have I found here, 

And friendship true, which I hold dear. 

May health and joy be yours forever, 

And the storms of strife come near you never. 



IT WAS EVER THUS 



Oh the lies and the lies 

We tell to a woman sweet; 

And as centuries and time flies, 
More lovers the same lies repeat. 



EPIGRAM ON LOVE 



Love blooms in an hour, 

Beautiful it is born. 
Youth grasps its sweet flower, 

Nor little recks of the thorn. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 69 



TEARS 

Oh blest are the tears that creep, 
And over pale cheeks fall ; 

For eyes that never weep 
Are the saddest eyes of all. 

Tears bring balm from pain, 
And bring to the soul relief; 

But socrow will long remain 
In eyes that weep not grief, 

EPIGRAMMATICS 



Poetry is spontaneous combustion of the soul. 
Hash is a mystery with a doubtful history. 

In the ninth inning of the Great Game, 
With the Score Tied, and Two Down — 
Uncle Sam came to Bat, as Pinch-Hitter 
For the Allies, and Scored a Home Run. 



70 POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POETS 



THE HEART OF ICE 



She looks at the world, and sees herself in a mirror. 

Oh heart of ice, what strange device 

Can warm a heart so cold? 
Your love is one that avarice 

Cannot buy with gold. 

Come, tell the truth — I know forsooth 

You are not an iceberg bare. - 
The summer skies are in your eyes; 

Your soul — is winter there? 



THE PAIN KILLER— LOVE 



Love all pain heals 

For when a maid's in love 

She never feels, 

Of knows, 

(When in dancing) her beau 

Clumsily treads on her toes! 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 71 



IS IT OR AIN'T IT? 



Optimist will always swear, 
That the world is "square" — 
Despite the fact Columbus found 
This old earth of ours is round. 



MONEY MAGNIFIED 



A dime is very small to see, 

And yet, it is no joke — 
For it looks like a dollar to me, 

When I'm broke, when I'm broke. 



THE PREFERENCE 



I'd sooner be a beggar, 

And have a gay wild fling; 

Than to own a mint of money, 
And be a miser king. 



EPIGRAM ON LOVE 



Love lies buried in the heart, 
And is a precious prize. 

From its hiding place 'twill often start- 
Drawn by a pair of magnet eyes. 



72 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



PART THREE 



OTHER POEMS 



A WOMAN'S BATTLE 



Thine eyes are closed in death. 
Nevermore shalt thou draw breath. 
Nevermore shalt thine eyelids flutter, 
Nor one sweet word shalt thou utter. 
The nations with thy praises did not rinj 
They thought it but a common thing, 
For thou, in battle slew not another, 
But died in pain to be a mother. 













j 












y. ' *"j 


; ;;^5r | ^ ' '■ 










J| : 1f 


/•■w 












» * • ,. 






■ 




^'■;-«« 










■ :: > : ''-" ■''•-:,■ 






^^^^ 


1 . 


* ■' 


111,: 




1 




- r .-i * 


,.^^\ J|l|l 










t ' 


i 1'. |„ 


• '■■ , :# V . '-$iS ■ i JIM 




•i 






""TC |:^l 


"«;, 


*.*,^£3S^' ..^ ■ gijirf 


; 






n - 


T'wlBB 


; 






1 




.. :::■:.:.: 


■'-V:>m, • :~; K ^S|!|~p' 




. 


jti 






.".• ,,■■,.■ ■.<■ 


• w • 


,,::,.:■■. 








,^Wt^i : ^% 


!? Mfe 


1 










B 




u s# ; : ' 




\ -R 






-! 


Ef 7 


«4, 




l^ 


L^ , • 


. - % 




^# ■■ :; 


*m^v * 3r*^ 




' 



Typical Scene during the American Occupation 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 73 



A ROAMER 



I 'm one of the rambling, 

Gambling men, 

With feet that never rest. 

Each place we leave, 

For we believe 

That the next one is best. 

Itching feet that never rest — 
The call is, on and on, 
And we never know the last was best 
'Til to the next we are gone. 



THE PRETTY BOY 



A fact I have long known 

Is: The pretty boy over whom the ladies fuss 
When he gets older and full grown — 

Don't generally amount to a cuss. 



74 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



EVERY BOY CAN BE PRESIDENT 



i 

Every boy can be President. 

But, oh how many have missed their chance 
In the years that have come and went, 

Since first they wore long pants. 

II 

Said every one, the preacher's son 
Would fill the Presidential socks. 

His term in prison's just begun; — 
At present he is pounding rocks. 

Ill 

All Hickoryville said, Bill Maggee 

Has such a clever brain. 
When last I saw Bill, he was No. 63, 

In a state asylum for the insane! 

IV 

The wiseacres of my home town said, 

Fred Jones would fill the Presidential chair, 

Say, the last time I saw Fred 

He was selling corn salve at a county fair! 



__^__ 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 75 



EVERY BOY CAN BE PRESIDENT 
Cont. 



v 

Everyone said, I would be great. 

In my beaming boyish self they could trace- 
Now all day long I hustle freight, 

And punch tickets on the face 

VI 

Every boy can be President, 

But how many ever got there, 
Since first their coin they spent 

For oil to slick down their hair? 



76 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE DEATH OF A FLOWER 



'Twas only a. sweet scented flower, 
Torn from its home in the wild. 

Plucked from a cool woody bower, 
By the hand of an innocent child. 

Wilted 'twould be in an hour, 
With its beauty forever dead, 

And no mercy of God could then empowei 
It to rais£ its once lovely head. 

Oh a breast of snowy white 

Was the place of its death, 
And it sang with delight, 
I wither and die tonight, 

But my soul shall be her breath." 



IOWA MY OWN 



Oh Iowa, where I was born, 

I love your waving wealth of corn. 

In lyric sung, in story told, 

Will ever live your hearts of gold. 

Your sons win victories by the score, 

In peace, in stress, in love, in war. 

My heart with you shall ever be. 

And I know you'll bide by me. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 77 




The Family Washtub (Meuse River near Vaucooleurs.) 



78 POEMS BY AMERICAS SOLDIER POET 



THE SAD FATE OF HIRAM DILL'S 
HOGS 



Down in Indiana, in the town of Hickoryville, 

Lived a rustic rube, named Henry Hiram Dill. 

He owned a goat and some long lean dogs, 

And a pert passle of "razor back" hogs. 

The land which Hiram Dill did own 

Was mostly lumps of rock and stone. 

He couldn't raise a thing on it, 

But the acorn oaks grew there a bit. 

And so he fattened up his droves 

In his vast acorn groves. 

When home he wished his hogs to come 

He'd rattle right smart on an old snare drum. 

When he got slop from the town, 

He'd rattle the drum and they'd come down. 

Things and hogs went their natural way, 

Until a flock of woodpeckers came one day. 

Lit in Hi's grove and the echoes awoke 

With the din of thirty snare drums in a battle smoke, 

And the hogs, helter, skelter, ran themselves clean out of 

breath ; — 
Kept on running thru the forest 'til they ran themselves to 

death. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 79 



TO A SUN DIAL 



Fain were I to forget 

The dark days sad and grim, 
And only the sunshine let 

Light a life grown dreary dim. 

Oh sun dial amid fragrant flowers, 

My life should be as thine — 
To mark only the happy hours, 

When bright the sun doth shine. 

I'll forget the weary, dreary years, 
And trials which have flown past. 

I'll forget the years of toil and tears, 
And remember when the sun shone last. 



80 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



TO DEPARTING SUMMER 



i. 

Fair summer is dying, 

Lo she is fading fast. 
Her gentle voice is crying, 

Her youth is over and past. 

II 

The woods are brown and bare. 

Hushed is the birdling's song. 
The wild geese, thru the air 

Fly southward in a noisy throng. 

Ill 

Scampering squirrels in the glade, 
Hunt hungrily their winter hoard. 

The ring of a woodman's blade 
Bespeaks the fall of a forest lord. 

IV 

The rose bush is lonely 

For her flowers long dead 
Her crimson haws only 

Bring memories of roses fled. 

V 

Summer, the flowers shall come again. 

The birds shall sing, as of yore, 
For life the race of mortal men 

You come, and go forevermore. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 81 



THE MUTE MOTHER 



She sang, her song seemed to rise 

Skyward as a driven dart; 
As though, in music, to the skies 

Her soul was fane to depart. 

But her song did not start 

From the lips as most songs come, 
But from the depths of a mother's heart. 

You see, the woman was dumb. 

As her babe she held on her knee, 

In her eyes were joy supreme, 
As if she could look and see 

The Gates of Heaven brightly gleam. 

A look of pain into her eyes did creep, 
For she knew — she never could call 

His name, or sing him to sleep, 

As other mothers do when evening shadows fall 

This thought of sorrow to her came — 

A thought that made her sad. 
Then quickly vanished, for she knew her wee lad 

Would love her just the same. 



82 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



LINES TO MY SISTER'S BABY 



We know not why you came, 

Nor quickly fled away. 
A mother's heart is breaking, 

Because you would not stay. 

You came to her, a sunbeam, 
To cheer her weary hours; 

Plucked straight from Heaven, 
From a field of God's own flowers. 

Perhaps God was lonesome, 
And called you back again, 

To save you from worldly misery, 
And the way of sinful men. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 83 



KNOWLEDGE 



The things we learn in college 
Are many, there's no doubt. 
But, far more, I acknowledge— 
Are the things we don't find out. 

When young, our wisdom we give 
To others, but as we grow sage, 
And venerable with age ; — 
We proceed to die, just when 
We have found how to live. 



WHY 



The reason why he walks so straight, 

And holds his head so high- 
Is because a pretty girl, named Kate, 
On the other side is walking by. 



84 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



PARODY 

(WITH APOLOGIES TO H. W. LONGFELLOW) 



I threw a brick into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew now where; 
For it whizzed so swiftly into the night, 
I could not follow its sudden flight. 

I breathed some garlic into the air, 
It hit the earth, I knew not where; 
For who has scent so keen and strong, 
That it can follow garlic along? 

Not long, not long after that; 
The brick smashed the hat of a party fat, 
And the garlic, from beginning to end, 
I found again on the breath of a friend. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 85 



HOW THEY DO IT 

(as seen by a "nut") 



There's dozens of ways to be famous, 

There's dozens of ways to be great, 
And here's, a few, which to you 

I'm very glad to relate. 

Mr. Figgs had piles of "kale." 

In wads to him it came. 
He built a home for orphan cats, 

And paved his way to fame. 

Zeke Binks was very poor. 

Poor but honest, was this guy. 
He grew a stinkless onion — 

His fame will never die. 

Hi Jenks wasn't much for looks; 

He was a homely nincompoop. 
But he made his fame just the same 

By inventing noiseless soup. 

Thus leads the path to fame, 

To fame or notoriety. 
These men all became 
Lions" in high society. 

But the man whose fame will never die — 
Yea, his grave would be strewn with roses 

(By the ladies) is the sage old guy 

Who invents powder that won't show on their noses 1 



86 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



THE RETIRED ACTRESS' LAMENT 

(strictly confidential) 



The movies have invaded our fair land, 

And captured it from shore to shore, 

But, oh I long for the days on the "one night stand, 

The days that are no more. 

Kate married a cheese merchant from Kalamazoo, 

For better or for worse ; 

And a preacher got tied to our soubrette Sue, 

And so they no longer rehearse. 

I long to kick my feet in the air, 

And pose before the foot-light's glare. 

Oh gee! How the rubes would stare! 

The deacons would sit 

In box seats all lit, 

And stroke the "spinach" on their chins, 

And then go home, 

And write a tome 

On actresses and their sins. 

Oh I long for the days of yore, 

As I sit in my flat 

Up on the ninth floor ; — 

And, I'm jealous as a cat 

Of the young chorus girl next door ! 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 89 



THE "LIFER" 



Oh the feeling of despair, 
As the clanging gate ajars! 
To be kept for life, in there, 
Locked for life behind the bars! 
Now I know why untamed beast, 
Kingly lion from the east — 
Taken from desert life apart, 
Dies encaged, of broken heart. 
Why the untamed fowl of air, 
Taken from rocky nest place bare, 
.Beats with broken wings the bars, 
With a dull despairing rage. 
Shut in from sunshine and the stars 
In a narrow iron cage. 



POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POETS 87 



SWEET MARIE 

(the janitor to his former wife, the cook) 



Sweet Marie, for you I pine. 
Your pancakes have the finest taste, 
Your waist 

Is a forty-nine. 
I miss you, and my heart 
Is 

sad 

with 

sighs. 

I miss those crispy apple pies, 

You 

used 
to 

make. 

This boarding house 

makes me 

ache. 
I miss you in the night, 

Helpmate 

so 

sweet. 



I miss your gentle snore — 

And 



your 

ice-cold 

feet. 



I ; 



88 POEMS BY AMERICA'S SOLDIER POET 



TO A LITTLE BIRD 



.Oh little bird, I fain would know 

Why you so blithely sing? 
The flowers are gone, and whirling snow 

Comes swift with a frozen sting. 

' I sing because the summer's breeze 

Will come again with spring. 
I sing because the barren trees 

Will bloom again, when soft winds bring 

Sweet scents from the land of flowers. 

I sing, for my mate will be then 
With me for many happy hours; — 

When spring-time comes again." 

Oh little bird, a lesson from you 
I'm taught — never to despair. 

To think of future skies of blue. 
And to forget the present bare. 



I 



. 



43 78 522 , 

: 



